A Chill Rain
by aldalindil
Summary: Alastor Moody has just recovered from being locked in a trunk for nine months. Being a prisoner was bad enough, but what he’s about to do for love is far more difficult. In times of war, though, even a moment’s hard-won peace can be enough.


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Disclaimer: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Alastor Moody, Arabella Figg, and all related characters, ideas, and materials belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

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Author's Notes: This story is connected—if loosely—to my fanfic "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald." It's the second in a planned series of related stories in what I think of as a "fic-web" or story arc. They will all be connected in some way, but won't necessarily all be set in the same universe, and won't all be sequels or prequels of one another, if that makes sense. As more stories are posted, I'll put a timeline on my author profile showing which fics follow one another. 

"A Chill Rain" is only very loosely connected to the fic-web, as it doesn't prominently feature Minerva McGonagall. That said, this story is set in the same universe as "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald." It comes years after the flashback in "WoC,CoE," but this is the same Alastor Moody who was friends with Minerva and acted as second in her duel with Tom. It's also the same Alastor who warned Minerva about dealing with Slytherins…needless to say, he later changed his mind about at least _one_ of them. ;) 

"A Chill Rain" _could_ also be set years after "The Emerald Mark," but I'll leave that up to you to decide. I'll also leave it to you all to decide whether or not the "present day" parts of "WoC,CoE" will happen later in this storyline.

That's the purpose of this fic-web, really, and it will become clearer—and more complicated, and hopefully richer—as more stories get written. I'm writing scenarios that all tie together on some level. It's up to you to pick and choose which storylines you want to connect. 

I hope you enjoy reading the web as much as I'm enjoying writing it. As always, feedback is appreciated. 

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A Chill Rain

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Rain was the bane of Alastor Moody's existence. Well, perhaps it fell after dark wizards with nasty hexes on his list of enemies, but it was a close second. Rain plastered his coarse grey hair to his face, driving sopping strands into the many scars and crevices on his skin. He couldn't feel the cold or the wet very well, not on the caved and drooping right side of his face, but the pressure of the wet hairs made his scars itch. Rain also, and more importantly, made it painfully difficult for him to walk. The smooth wood of his peg leg's foot kept slipping on the wet pavement, unable to find purchase. Each time it slipped or skittered, the cuff at the top wrenched and chafed against his stump.

"Fucking rain," he growled, pausing and leaning against a lamppost for support. For that matter, Muggle sidewalks were quickly climbing the List of Things He Hated. While the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley delighted in trapping his wooden leg in the cracks, the damnably smooth, slippery Muggle pavement was worse by far. He clutched the lamppost tightly, shifting his weight onto his good leg. This was ridiculous. Probably not worth the pain or effort, either. He spied a wooden bench up ahead, its peeling green paint glistening from the wet. Undoubtedly uncomfortable, it nevertheless looked inviting as a throne, and Alastor pushed himself off the lamppost and ambled forward as quickly as possible. 

His long grey overcoat--otherwise known as his robes, transfigured--swished wetly about his legs as he walked. The swishing was echoed by his gusty sigh when he carefully lowered himself onto the bench and leaned back heavily. He sighed again and stretched his wooden leg out in front of him, resisting the strong urge to rub his stump in public. After spending the better part of a year locked in a trunk without his leg and definitely unable to walk, his muscles ached now from the slightest exertion, and his peg leg felt awkward and painful. He just had to get accustomed to it again, he knew, but it still hurt. Made his ego smart a bit, too, for that matter. He hadn't limped like this since he'd first lost his leg, nearly fourteen years ago.

Tilting his face up to meet the rain, he closed his eyes and sighed once more before reaching up a gnarled hand to slick back his wet hair. He quickly opened his eyes—he could see through his eyelid with his magical eye, but preferred not to—and checked to make certain no one was about. The street was nearly deserted, of course. After all, anyone with sense was indoors on a day like this. He half-nodded, satisfied, and closed his eyes again, trying to rest as best he could, though he could not silence the thoughts that swirled like whispers in his mind. Perhaps Albus and Minerva had been wrong when they suggested he go out. Perhaps he wasn't healed enough or—he hated to admit it, even to himself—strong enough.

Alastor sighed again and scrubbed at his face, trying to quiet the shadows that had plagued him since he'd been captured and hating to think they might be right. Maybe he _was_ too old, too broken, too damned _tired_ to do the job of a younger man. He'd retired once, but after spending a year as a prisoner, and especially after waking to find that Voldemort had risen again, he simply couldn't sit on his thankfully intact arse and do nothing!

…But then, what _could_ he do? Sneaking up on Dark wizards was a bit difficult when he went "clunk" with every other step. Chasing them down would be no easy feat, either. Alastor liked to brag that he could still two-step as well as anyone, but unfortunately he couldn't out-run a tortoise if his life depended on it. He'd done it in the past, of course. Oh, aye, he'd made certain the rest of him was in top shape for the first few years after he'd lost his leg and had tracked a few Death Eaters all over Europe…before the Ministry had sent in younger, fresher Aurors to "finish up" for him. He'd been offered a nice, comfortable office in the Department of Records, followed by a position at the Magical Law Enforcement Agency…filing paperwork. The offers had continued, their message becoming increasingly insistent and clear: "You're too old, and you're a liability. Go home."

When the Minister himself had written to Alastor congratulating him on his very long career and sending best wishes for his retirement, Alastor decided he'd had enough. His curt reply consisted of two words, only one of which was suitable for use in polite company. He'd sent Nadine, his ancient barn owl, to deliver the message, cleaned out his desk at the Aurors' Headquarters, and clomped out without a word.

And now, ten years later, here he was sitting in the rain on a bench in Little Whinging, confused as hell and cursing himself for being an idiot. Cursing Minerva, too, for that matter. She never knew when to let him be. Just like a cat, unable to leave a loose bit of string alone.

Alastor's lips twisted reluctantly in what would have been a smile on a less battered face. Of course, Minerva had a right. She'd been his closest friend at school, almost like the sister he'd never had. He and Albus were friends now—had been since long before Albus and Minerva's marriage—but their relationship was more professional, as if they both still remembered that Albus had once been the teacher, and Alastor the student. He'd known Minerva, on the other hand, since he'd been sorted into Gryffindor immediately after her. 

Aye, she'd had a right to come to his room at the Hogwarts infirmary over the summer and tell him he was being an idiot, lying in bed and feeling sorry for himself. She'd never been one for wearing her heart on her sleeve, had Min, but Alastor knew from long experience that her sternest words hid her strongest feelings. After all, as soon as the words had left her mouth she'd brought him his wooden leg—freshly polished, he'd noticed, but he had known better than to mention it. She had then helped him buckle it on and had given him her shoulder to lean on as he walked the empty corridors of Hogwarts, re-adjusting to his leg and strengthening his atrophied muscles. She'd also had a right, today, when she told him to stop being such a ninny (her word) and do something he'd been putting off for two months. 

Something he'd been unable to do for over fourteen years.

With a sigh that turned into a groan halfway through, Alastor hauled himself to his feet, holding the back of the bench to regain his balance. He then lowered his head against the downpour and set off stubbornly down the street. Minerva was right--he really ought to stop being such a ninny. This kind of cowardice was ill befitting to a Gryffindor. And it wasn't as if he was doing something _unpleasant_, exactly. This was just…damnably uncomfortable. In more ways than one, he thought wryly as his leg slip-skittered _again_ when he crossed yet another street.

He looked up at the signpost above his head, shiny and beaded with droplets. Privet Drive, it read. He was almost there, then. Alastor swallowed hard as he limped onwards, scarcely noticing the rows of neat little houses with painted shutters. He passed a house where a skinny, vulture-necked woman was watching him through the window. She quickly pulled the curtains closed when he glared. 

He crossed another street, and then another. The houses all looked the same, except for the numbers painted beside the doors. Those were what Alastor was looking at. As he passed house after house, words spun a litany in his head in time with the "step, clunk" of his footsteps. 

__

Why am I here? She won't remember. She will, but I'm not the man I was. I don't have a leg or an eye. I'm scarred. I'm scared. She'll be disgusted. She'll only invite me in out of pity…if she invites me in at all. How can I ask her to even look at me? What am I doing? Why am I here? Why why why why why…

He knew the house was hers before he even looked at the number. It was painted Slytherin green with white shutters. Very subtle, he thought, amused. There were also little boxes full of flowers and herbs blooming outside almost every window. Not surprising—she'd always loved Herbology. It was charming despite the gloomy day, and Alastor smiled slightly as he turned and headed for the door. He smiled until fear and trepidation hit him in the stomach like a fist. Then, he took a deep and shaking breath, considered smoothing his bedraggled hair and decided not to bother, and knocked. He stood on the doormat and waited, shifting his weight onto his good leg and resisting a strong urge to look through the door. 

A moment that seemed like an eternity passed, and then another. Alastor considered leaving as fast as he could limp, but supposing she _did_ come to the door, he didn't want her first sight of him to be his arse ambling awkwardly away. And so he waited.

After a few more minutes, he was thoroughly convinced she wasn't home and was just turning to leave when the door opened. Alastor swung around, wobbled a bit, and cursed softly, humiliated. He looked up, however, and was vastly relieved—if a bit disconcerted--to see that it wasn't her at all.

A little old woman, stooped and shaking with age, stood before him. Alastor didn't smile, knowing that particular expression caused his face to contort in a rather frightening manner, but attempted instead to look as non-threatening as possible. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he said, trying to gentle his gruff voice. "Is Arabella at home?"

The old woman put a trembling hand over her chest, and her gaze seemed to travel over his body, no doubt taking in the clawed wooden foot showing beneath the hem of his Muggle trousers, his scarred hands and scarred, battered, mockery of a face with its magical eye. She looked at his face silently for a long moment before her eyes locked with his. Hers were surprisingly clear for such an aged woman, blue-grey and strangely young, but so very sad… And then he knew. Oh, Merlin, he knew.

Guilt and pain knifed through his heart, and he would have gone to his knees—well, knee, singular—if only he could. Instead, he tore his eyes away and bowed his head in hot, humiliated shame, not daring to speak.

Her voice washed over him like cool, forgiving water, its steadiness surprising given her appearance. "Alastor?" It wasn't a question, not really, but the single word was tinged with uncertainty.

Alastor raised his head slowly, still feeling sick with guilt. "Arabella," he whispered, his voice hoarser than usual. He stood there awkwardly, just looking at her, completely at a loss for words.

Arabella smiled tremulously and stepped aside. "Won't you come in?

He meant to step inside, but instead blurted out, "What _happened_ to you?"

Arabella raised an eyebrow, looking very much like herself again, despite the papery, wrinkled skin of her face. "I could ask you the same," she said tartly, "but I imagine both are very long stories, and I don't think either of us wants to stand here in the rain whilst they're told, do you?" 

Alastor barked a laugh in spite of his discomfort and limped forward into the house. 

"All right, then." 

He looked about once he'd entered. The house was impeccably clean, though its furnishings were somewhat shabby. At a single glance, he counted at least three cats draped over various pieces of furniture. There was a calico on the back of the sofa, a fluffy tabby curled up on the hearth rug, and a rather bedraggled-looking grey cat grooming itself in an armchair. A sleek black paw stuck out from beneath an end table, as well. A somewhat odd smell hung about the house. Alastor sniffed and then wrinkled his nose automatically when he identified it: boiled cabbage.

Arabella closed the door behind him and came to stand beside him. She must have noticed his look of distaste because she hastened to say, "Sorry about the smell. It's a potion I brew daily."

Alastor nodded, wanting to ask what the potion was for but not knowing if he had the right, any more. He turned to Arabella, determined to ask at least _one_ of the questions that spun about in his head. She gestured awkwardly to the chair and sofa with a hand that still trembled. "Do have a seat, Alastor. Would you care for some tea?"

He would have, but shook his head. "I'd rather talk."

She nodded and went to sit on the sofa, picking up the calico and pulling it down into her lap as she sat.

Alastor followed slowly, wondering what to do. There was a time when he would've automatically sat next to her, put his arm around her, held her close and kissed her and told her that he loved her. In fact, for fourteen years he'd dreamed of doing just that. But now that it came to it…he just couldn't. This wasn't how he had imagined this at _all._ Regardless, he couldn't just sit in the armchair. That was too formal, and Merlin knew they weren't strangers. Instead, he lowered himself slowly onto the other end of the sofa. It was amazing how the single cushion-width of space between them seemed like forever.

Once he'd settled himself, he turned to her and smiled awkwardly, casting about for something to say. "Er, nice cats you have here." He could've whacked himself with his wooden leg once he'd spoken. He hadn't spoken to her in fourteen years, and the first thing he said was she had nice _cats_?

Arabella beamed, scratching the calico behind her ears. "Aren't they, though? They're my children."

Alastor blinked. Apparently it had been just the right thing to say, after all, he realised as she continued talking.

"This is Belladonna," she said, shifting to scratch the calico under her chin, "And the tabby is Copernicus, the grey one is Merlin—he's fifteen years old. And there's a Siamese somewhere named Circe—she's shy, and a black one—oh, there's her paw!—named Boggart." Arabella laughed. "I used to tell Harry they were called things like Snowy and Fluffy. As if I'd give my babies such silly names."

Alastor nodded, frowning slightly at her mention of Harry. After all, it was Harry's fault, in a way, that things were…the way they were. 

He looked up at her face, seeing a woman who _looked_ as old as Albus Dumbledore when, in reality, she was the same age as Alastor. Her hair had been brown and shining fourteen years ago, her pale skin only marred by a few crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Now…she had aged _far_ more than would be expected. She was middle-aged, for a witch! Not old by any means. And her constant shaking—was that age, or something else? He cleared his throat and asked again. 

"Bella…what _happened_ to you?"

She suddenly became very interested in the cat in her lap and stroked it in silence for a moment before replying. "It was after Albus asked me to go into hiding and watch Harry. After we'd…said goodbye," she whispered. "I needed a disguise, and there was--" her breath hitched, "—an experimental potion. Severus Snape resurrected an ancient recipe and modified it. It was like an ageing potion, but designed to last longer. And it couldn't be discovered by magic, because it used entirely Muggle ingredients."

Alastor forced a smile and a teasing tone, though he felt sick inside. He had an idea where this was going. "And you liked it the taste so much you kept taking it?" Please, don't let her say what I think she's going to, he pleaded silently.

Arabella looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. "Snape's research was incomplete, Alastor. The potion was supposed to be reversible, but back then, no one knew that its effects became permanent if it was taken regularly."

He growled, deep in his throat. "I'll kill Snape for doing this to you."

"No!" Arabella looked shocked. "It's because of him I'm still alive."

"What?"

She flushed and started stroking the cat again, her veined hands shaking almost violently against its fur. "There was something else," she whispered, eyes downcast. "This potion didn't just disguise one's age. It actually _altered_ it. You see? When the effects became permanent, I became…old. I would have died years ago, but Severus invented another potion. It's not a cure, but it can _keep_ me at this age. For a time."

Alastor opened his mouth, but only a half-strangled croak emerged. He blinked back the tears suddenly pricking at his good eye, cleared his throat, and tried again. "How long?" he whispered hoarsely.

Arabella looked up again and smiled tremulously, raising her hand in a helpless gesture. "A few years? More or less. We don't really know yet. After all, I'm the first person to use it."

Alastor nodded, trying to swallow the large lump in his throat. A few years, more or less. In other words, Arabella would be lucky if she saw the end of the war. In other words, she'd given more than half her life—literally—to the Cause. In the face of that, his own sacrifices seemed meaningless and unimportant.

Suddenly, Alastor knew it was time to get to the point. So much time had been lost already; he couldn't afford to waste any more.

He shifted awkwardly and looked over at her. "Bella, I came here today for a reason. I would've come sooner, but I…well…I wasn't able to." She regarded him curiously, and he cleared his throat again. Damn, this was hard. "I wanted to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Would you—What I mean to say is, I know it's been a very long time, but...would you have me back?" He flushed and looked down at his lap, feeling like an idiot. 

Certainly, they'd been in love once. For years, in fact, but that was a long time ago. Before Voldemort's fall. Before Harry Potter had been sent to live with his aunt and uncle. Before Albus had told Arabella he needed someone to live near Potter and watch out for him, in near-total exile from the wizarding world. Before things became so _complicated_. 

For fourteen years Alastor hadn't even known where she was, hadn't received or sent a single owl, just in case he were captured by Death Eaters. It was an occupational hazard, and Albus couldn't risk the Death Eaters using Alastor as a way to get to Arabella Figg and, through her, to Harry Potter. Now that Voldemort had risen again, though, things were different. But still, fourteen years was a very long time.

She didn't reply for the longest time, and at last Alastor looked up at her, hoping he hadn't presumed too much. Then she laughed, though her laugher had a ragged edge, as if she were holding back a sob. 

"Oh, Alastor. You don't want _me_! Not as I am now. Look at me—I'm old! I could be your mother." She shook her head slowly, tears glinting on her cheeks. 

"I'm old, and I'm going to die soon. And look--" she held out her hand, which still shook constantly. "—the potion I'm taking does this to me, too. I can barely take care of myself, Alastor. The last thing I want to do is burden _you_."

Alastor reached out and gently caught her hand between both of his. He held it lightly, like something fragile, for it trembled beneath his touch like a captive butterfly. 

"Bella," he whispered, looking into her beautiful blue-grey eyes, the only part of her he recognised as _his_ Arabella, "don't you know that I _want _to care for you?" 

He then snorted self-consciously and lifted one hand in order to gesture at his body. "And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm no prize either. Missing a leg, an eye, half my face…" He smiled wryly, knowing well the scarred, battered face before her wouldn't be winning prizes for beauty any time soon. 

"I came here today thinking _I_ wouldn't be good enough for _you_, now that I'm not the man I was." He cleared his throat again, squeezed her hand gently, and then whispered the rest huskily, his voice shaking. "My body might not be what it once was, but my heart's just fine, Bella. And I still love you with all of it, and will keep doing so, if you'll have me back."

In answer, she lifted her free hand to the ruined right side of his face and put her fingertips against his cheek. He couldn't feel them properly, of course, but it was enough to know they were there. More than enough. 

"When you put it like that, how could I not?" Her voice shook too, and her tears now flowed freely.

He smiled broadly, heedless of the fact that the expression made him look even more frightening than usual. "Then I suppose I can ask you my _other_ question." Only this one had been dependent on certain other factors.

"Of course. Anything." She nodded, reaching up to run her trembling fingers through his wet, shaggy hair.

His gaze shifted to the floor by the sofa, gauging the distance. He hadn't tried this before—hadn't had any need. Likely it would be humiliating and almost certainly painful, but she deserved it.

Alastor pulled away from her slightly and then slid off of the sofa with a soft grunt, attempting to put his good leg into a kneeling position on the floor. Once that was accomplished, and after he'd caught his breath, he braced himself with one hand against the sofa and angled his stiff wooden leg out to the side. It _was_ uncomfortable, as the angle of his peg leg made the cuff dig deeply into his stump. Damned near impossible, too. But he'd done it.

Still holding onto the sofa with one hand, he reached into the pocket of his coat with the other. He then looked up at Arabella and found her watching him, an unreadable expression on her face.

Alastor blushed and pulled the ring box out of his pocket. He flicked it open with one hand and held it out to her, afraid to let go of the sofa lest he topple over. He smiled up at her, overwhelmed by feelings of embarrassment, love, and bittersweet happiness. 

"Arabella, I've wanted to ask you this for over fourteen years. I was _going_ to ask you before, well, everything happened. That's why I have this." He waved the ring box a little and then took a deep breath.

"Will you marry me?"

Arabella put a hand over her mouth and stared down at him, and at the ring he'd had specially made for her, so many years ago. It was a slender band made of strands of gold and silver, braided together. In the centre of the ring was an emerald, framed on either side by tiny rubies. Silver and green; crimson and gold. Slytherin and Gryffindor joined together, as he meant Arabella and himself to be.

At last, she lowered her hand and placed it over his on the sofa cushion before speaking that single word. "Yes."

Alastor grinned, finally allowing his tears to spill over. "Thank you," he whispered. Then he laughed. "I'll put the ring on you…as I figure out how to get up from here."

She laughed, too, and slowly slid off the sofa to sit beside him. "Is this better?"

"Much." He grinned again and half-sat, half-fell back onto his arse. No longer needing the support of the sofa, he pulled the ring out of its box, picked up her left hand, and carefully slid the band onto her shaking finger. Then he pulled her close, bent his head, and kissed her soundly. It was nothing like he remembered. This was real, and infinitely better.

They both had a difficult time standing up a few moments later, what with her shaking, ancient body and his leg, but they helped each other and managed it.

And still later, when they climbed into her bed, it wasn't at all like it had been before. Years ago, her skin had been smooth and perfect as cream, and her hair had been a shimmering waterfall of brown. Years ago, he'd been muscular and relatively unscarred, with two perfect eyes and legs. 

Now, she helped him unfasten his wooden leg from his stump with shy, shaking, wrinkled hands. She had to pull away from kisses sooner to rest, because even that small exertion tired her. When she pulled out her hairpins, a soft cloud of white cascaded about her pale shoulders.

Years ago, he wouldn't have given a second thought to his nakedness. Now, when her eyes took in his body, he blushed, knowing well the countless scars that marred his skin. He blushed again when his magical eye started gazing this way and that uncontrollably, as it sometimes did when he was tired. 

It was nothing like it had been once, and it was nothing like he'd imagined it.

But when she bent to kiss him, when she laboriously traced his scars with a palsied fingertip, when she let her hand slide down from his side to caress his stump without so much as a pause, it didn't matter any more.

Beneath his gnarled, callused hands, it didn't matter that her skin was creased with age instead of firm and smooth as it had once been. All that mattered to him was that his hands were too rough, to blunt, to touch such fragile softness.

It didn't matter that her hair was white instead of brown under his fingertips; he concentrated only on not letting his clumsy fingers snag the silken strands.

It suddenly didn't matter to Alastor that he couldn't really be an Auror any longer, either. He would be married soon and had enough money saved to buy them a little house somewhere, maybe in Hogsmeade, with plenty of room for cats. They'd plant a flower garden, too, of course. He didn't need a job, not when he'd have a wife to take care of.

They only had a few years, more or less, to make up for a lifetime of lost time. It wasn't how he'd imagined it, but that didn't matter. 

It was enough.


End file.
